


After the War

by Unfeathered



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BDSM, Bondage, Chains, Dom/sub, Dominance, Heavy BDSM, Hurt/Comfort, Impact Play, Kink, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-17
Updated: 2009-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:08:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24540589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unfeathered/pseuds/Unfeathered
Summary: The Master comes across a grieving, desperate Doctor right after the end of the Time War
Relationships: Ninth Doctor/The Master (Simm), The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	After the War

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](https://rounds_of_kink.livejournal.com/389793) on 17 March 2009.
> 
> Written for Round Ten of [rounds_of_kink](https://rounds_of_kink.livejournal.com/) for the prompt:  
>  _Doctor Who, Master/Doctor – What if the Year the Never Was truly never was, and instead the Master focused his attentions on the wreck of the Doctor he's found post-Time War; a Doctor who is very eager to be at his whim so long as he isn't alone. To include coercion, bondage, dirty-talk._
> 
> Beta'd by [mad_jaks](https://mad_jaks.livejournal.com/) and [sistercarrion](https://sistercarrion.livejournal.com/). I would have given up on this fic several times if it hadn't been for them. I'd also like to thank my flist for general bdsm advice and for putting up with me wittering on and on about this fic as I was writing it.

There's a hole where Gallifrey used to be. A horrific, gaping tear in time and space, just starting to heal itself.

And a battered TARDIS spinning slowly at the edge of the wound, dark and out of control, with only a faint flicker of life.

* * *

The sound of my TARDIS materialising inside his own brings the Doctor running, as I knew it would. Watching my monitor, I see him stop in the middle of his console room, staring at the extra coral strut his TARDIS has apparently just grown, and I grin to myself and step out. "Doctor," I say, as calmly as I can, trying to ignore the frantic thump of my hearts at seeing him – at finding him alive – and the corresponding thud of the drums in my head.

The Doctor looks as if he's seen a ghost, and I suppose he has. The ghost of a race he'd thought extinct.

I tilt my head and hold out my arms mockingly. "What, no hug for your old friend, Doctor?" I pout.

He hesitates as if he's actually considering it, which is weird. He looks awful, I realise: dazed and empty and floundering; thin and ill, as if he's been forgetting to look after himself. I study him more closely, remembering the pretty young man in lace and velvet he'd been last time I saw him – with all that lovely hair. This regeneration's hardly got _any_ hair. And those _clothes_! The man who used to wear more colours and textures than you'd think it possible to get in one outfit, dressed in plain, stark black. I frown, disquiet prickling my skin, and extend my arms further.

"Come here, you big oaf." This time, I make it a command.

And, amazingly, he makes a small, choked sound that might be a sob, and stumbles forward into my arms, pressing tight against me, _clinging_ to me. " _Master,"_ he says roughly, and that's definitely a sob.

Curiouser and curiouser. I hold him close and pat his back and murmur, frowning behind his back, "Shhh, it's all right, I'm here now."

He pulls away, staring at me with intense blue eyes. " _How_ are you here?" he demands. "How did you find me? Come to that, how are you even alive?"

I raise my eyebrows and force a laugh. "I'm not the only one here who shouldn't be, Doctor. How did _you_ survive?"

"I don't know," he says emptily. "Didn't expect to."

I hold him away from me by the shoulders, searching his face. "You pressed the button," I realise. We'd both always known the option to destroy Gallifrey was there, to be used strictly as a last resort, when every other possible option had failed. "They made you do it."

"There wasn't anyone else who could do it." He shrugs and shakes his head. "Still don't know why it didn't take me with it."

I peer through the dimness at the battered console of his ship. "It looks as if it almost did."

"Almost." There's a sudden flicker of something that might be a grin. "But not quite." He breaks away from me to fiddle with a charred-looking switch on the console. "So what's your story, then?"

I shrug, trying for nonchalance, because I don't want to admit to him just how bloody scared I was. "Really Doctor, can you actually see me hanging around fighting once it was clear we were going to lose? I flew off to the end of the universe, abandoned my TARDIS on a moon and turned myself into a human. And lived for thirty-odd years until I finally died of old age, when I regenerated back into myself." I suppress a shudder at the memory.

He frowns. "That shouldn't happen, you know. If you die as a human, you shouldn't regenerate."

I sigh. "Doctor, this is _me_! Would you really expect me to give up my life that easily? I built in a little fail-safe to the chameleon arch."

"Of course you did." He grins, suddenly, over-bright. "So you regenerated and became yourself again. And then what?"

"And _then_ I could feel the emptiness, hear the silence, feel the loneliness – and I knew Gallifrey was gone. So I hitched a lift back to the moon where I'd left my TARDIS, set course for where Gallifrey used to be, and travelled backwards through time towards the explosion until I found you."

He _stares_ at me. " _You crossed your own timeline?_ In a universe that's recovering from a major realignment! How stupid are you?"

I raise an eyebrow, hoping it comes across as supercilious and not just plain hurt. "What timeline? Most of my timeline no longer exists. Gallifrey was the constant, and Gallifrey is gone. There's just you and me now."

The Doctor flinches, and turns away to fiddle with the console again. "Still stupid," he says gruffly.

"Oh, pfft, since when have I cared about the rules? Anyway, I came back for you."

"Just as well," he says decisively, turning to me with another of those sudden, too-cheerful grins. "What would the universe be like without you around to make my life a misery?"

I purse my lips. His almost aggressive cheeriness is starting to jar. No-one could be that normal after what he's done, especially not someone who cares as much as my Doctor. This cheer and normality is all a façade. I can _feel_ him reeling and shaking still, just below the surface.

I push out a mental feeler towards his mind. _It's me, Doctor. Let me in._

But I meet a barrier – hastily erected but reinforced with the strength of desperation. _No._

I come towards him, try again. _Doctor. Let me see._

He shakes his head, lips pressed tightly together. _No. I can't!_

I swallow and try not to let him see how much it hurts me that he's keeping me out. We're the only two left, for goodness sake! The drums thud dully in the back of my head. 

"Then I think I should leave," I say coolly, reaching into my pocket for the key to my TARDIS and starting to move away.

The Doctor turns to me, alarm plain to see on his face, and whispers, "No! Please. Don't go."

Oh, that's better. I turn away for a moment to hide the smile that stretches inescapably across my face as I pause, making him wait while I force my features back into a neutral expression. Then I spin round to fix him with a hard stare across the width of the console room.

"If I stay, it's going to be on my terms. You know that, don't you?"

He nods. He looks, now I come to notice it, absolutely wretched, his shoulders slumped beneath his jacket.

I don't move, don't give him any reason for hope, even though my heart's singing inside me. "Answer me properly, Doctor," I urge softly.

His jaw clenches and his blue eyes flash fire, but he says it. "Yes, Master."

And _then_ , I let myself smile, because that - _that_ \- is what I've been waiting for. The proud, strong Doctor I used to know, the Doctor I saw standing firm against the Daleks at the height of the War, the Doctor who mocked me relentlessly for being scared, for even thinking about abandoning my duty. Still there, thank goodness, inside the wreck of a man he's become. I just need to draw him out.

I swagger towards him, dropping my TARDIS key back into my pocket and enjoying the flicker in his eyes and the miniscule relaxation of his shoulders as he takes in the significance of that gesture: I really am staying. I keep going until I'm right in front of him, close enough that it forces him to straighten up.

_No more slouching, Doctor. Not on my watch._

He draws in a quick breath. "Just. Not in my head. Please. I'm not ready yet."

I hold his gaze for a long moment, and then nod. "All right," I agree magnanimously, "as long as you promise to try."

"Yes, Master," he says, without having to be prompted, this time, and I have to forcibly restrain myself from grinning like a madman.

I nod, briskly. "Right, then. Let's get you out of those mourning clothes."

His back's definitely straight now, rigid with protest.

I raise my eyebrows. Practically daring him. Well, no, not 'practically'. This _is_ a dare. "Or I leave," I add calmly, and watch him swallow his indignation and acquiesce.

Strange how him submitting to me seems to quiet the drums. How with him, _I_ can be the calm one. Like it used to be, years ago, before the bloody things got so loud, when he was the wild one and I was the one who held him back and talked sense into him.

His jaw's still tight. "Here?" he asks sceptically. "If you want me to change clothes, wouldn't the wardrobe be a better place?"

Heh. Wilfully misunderstanding me. Some things never change. "Oh, Doctor," I say, patting his cheek and ignoring his slight flinch of annoyance. "I didn't mean you were to _change_ clothes. I meant you were to get _out_ of them. But you're right, perhaps this isn't the best place. Perhaps a bedroom would be more fitting."

A brief flare of emotion – fear? Excitement? Desire? – in his eyes, and I smile. "In fact, since we're going to play this _my_ way now, I think we should do it in _my_ TARDIS, don't you? Come along."

And I turn to my TARDIS, taking out my key again and forcing myself not to look back to check that he's following as I walk across and unlock the door. He does follow, of course, but I'm halfway across my console room before I hear the faint scrape of boots on metal grating.

From the corner of my eye, I see him wince at the stark, monochrome elegance of the console room and corridors of my TARDIS, and smile inwardly, pushing open the double doors (I do like a bit of grandeur) to my bedroom which, in comparison, is an oasis of colour. Not a _lot_ of colour, but there are warm neutrals and the odd splash of royal purple, and different textures – shimmery silk on the bed, rich velvet hangings, tall mirrors on the walls, a thick fur rug in front of the open fireplace. I light the fire with a mental nudge to the TARDIS and usher the Doctor inside.

He makes a face at the shimmering opulence – almost automatically, it seems. Then he catches sight of himself in the mirrors and goes still, staring at the scrawny man in black that's his reflection. I follow his gaze, studying his expression, and frown. "Have you looked in a mirror at _all_ since you regenerated?" I demand incredulously.

"Don't think so." He shrugs, gaze dropping to his jumper. He pulls at the wool across his stomach, clearly noticing how loose it is, then tugs his jacket straight, head cocked to one side as he studies the effect.

I narrow my eyes. "Did you even care what you were wearing?"

His eyes meet mine in the mirror. "It's practical," he shrugs again.

"And the fact that it's all black?"

A shadow passes across his face and his expression turns mulish. He doesn't reply.

I walk across to face him, getting between him and his reflection, putting up a hand to stroke his cheek and encourage him to look at me directly. "How long is it since you regenerated?" I ask gently, the caring note in my voice surprising even myself.

Yet another shrug. "I dunno. A couple of months?"

"And you've been by yourself all that time, alone in your TARDIS?"

"Well, who else was there?" he asks hotly – then stops, breathing hard, gaze flying up to mine – and I smile, patting his cheek gently.

_There's me, Doctor. There's always me. There'll always be me. Let me in, Doctor. Let me convince you._

But still he shakes his head, edgy and almost _trembling_. "I _can't_ ," he whispers out loud. "Please. Not yet."

I bite my lip, but nod and let him have his way for the moment. Give a little, and I should get it back tenfold in gratitude. "All right, then. Now!" I clap my hands briskly. "Come on, let's get those clothes off you."

He tenses immediately, but then meets my eyes and nods stiffly. I watch him exhale and do his best to relax, the effort that takes clear to see in his face. I give him an approving smile, and move round behind him to ease the heavy leather jacket off his shoulders, watching him closely. But there's no protest, just a blank sort of acceptance. He lets me take the jacket off him and hang it in the big wardrobe, and makes no fuss when, with a hand in the small of his back, I guide him across to sit on the end of the bed.

I can't help a flicker of amusement as I kneel before him to deal with his boots – me kneeling to him isn't something that's happened very often in our past – but the Doctor barely even seems to notice, which is just _wrong_. I purse my lips and try to work out exactly what to do with him. He's shutting down. And it's too _easy_. I don't _want_ him that broken. I want my Doctor, the one who always fights back, and the blaze of excitement and exhilaration that always comes from locking swords with him.

I finish undressing him, gently and soothingly, until he's naked, standing with his bare toes curling into the creamy fur of the rug and gazing off into the fire, eyes blank - steadfastly avoiding the reflection of the gaunt, almost emaciated man in the mirror.

"Oh, Doctor, what have you done to yourself?" I murmur, trying to clamp down on the anger twisting inside me at the way he's been neglecting himself, and doing my best not to wince at the throbbing in my head that rises with my anger. I stroke down his arm and take his hand. "Come on. Bath."

Because now I'm this close to his naked body, I can _smell_ him.

Still no protest. He lets me run him a bath, put him in it and wash him gently, without so much as a murmur.

I let him stay quiet while I dry off his hair (not that that takes much, short as it is) and skin, then lead him back towards the bedroom. I sit down on the end of the bed, and look over at the Doctor expectantly as he hesitates in the doorway of the bathroom, looking suddenly very aware of the fact that I'm still dressed – though I've taken off my jacket and tie and rolled up my sleeves – while he's completely naked.

"Right, Doctor," I say cheerfully, rubbing my hands together eagerly. "I've taken care of you and now you owe me some fun. Get that skinny arse over here."

Oh yes. That's better. A nice _glower_.

I study him, wondering how far I'm going to have to push him before he starts to push back, and point to the carpet at my feet. "On your knees, Doctor. That's where you belong now. On your knees at my feet."

He still hesitates, eyes flicking between my face and the patch of carpet I'm pointing to. Then he walks, not gracefully but at least without overt resentment, across to me and sinks to his knees, head dropping as he goes.

Oh, that's nice. That's _very_ nice. I curl a hand round the back of his head, thumb stroking the short, stubbly hair, and watch his eyes drift shut. I smile. "Now. What are we going to do with you, hmm?"

He opens his eyes but keeps them on the carpet. What a good boy. "Whatever you want, Master."

The perfect answer. "Yes, exactly, whatever I want," I say thoughtfully. "And what I want…" I tuck a finger under his chin and lift it, waiting for him to meet my eyes before I continue. "What I _want_ is the Doctor back again."

A faint crease forms in the centre of his forehead. "I'm right here!" He actually sounds puzzled.

"But you're not, not really. You're like a ghost of yourself."

I expect denial, but perhaps he realises there's simply no point in trying to lie to me about this. _No-one_ knows him better than I do, after all. He swallows slowly. "Maybe this is all that's left," he admits, with a helpless little shrug.

I'm a little scared that he's right, but I've seen flashes of the old Doctor, so I know he's still in there. Just hidden away, cowering in shock. I need something to bring him out. "Well, let's see if we can find the rest of you, shall we?" I say brusquely, letting him go and standing up. He rocks back slightly but doesn't move more than that, and I grin and pat him on the head before crossing to the big chest of drawers where I keep all my _fun_ things.

I pull out a pair of black leather cuffs, heavy and impressive-looking but lined and comfortable. Nothing elaborate, just enough to keep him reminded of the fact that I'm in charge here. That I'm doing this for _me_ , just as much as for him. Though hopefully the cuffs' weight will also help keep him focussed on me, instead of letting him drift off too easily. He watches me as I bring them over to him, and – oh, look! – at last there's a reaction: a glimmer in his eyes, and a pulse beating fast at the base of his throat. It would be gratifying to see him getting hard too, but then I'm not hard yet, either – though I have got little trickles of excitement running up my spine at the prospect of getting to tie the Doctor up. That never gets old.

I sit on the bed again and, without being asked, he holds out his arms for me with an almost hopeful expression on his face. I smile at him, ignoring the way my hearts twist in my chest at the sight of it, and then look down to concentrate on putting the cuffs on him.

I don’t fix the cuffs together, because I’m planning to fix them to the wall instead. When they're on, he flexes his wrists and clenches his fists, as if checking for comfort and security.

"Only the best for _my_ Doctor," I say mockingly, and stand up, hooking my fingers in the cuffs' D-rings and pulling him up with me. "Come along." 

He follows me without demur across to the wall and lets me hook the cuffs to the chains hanging from it, securing him neatly facing the wall. I reel them up until his hands are positioned above his head and pleasingly spread. He's nice and tight against the wall, so he almost has to fight to keep his balance, has to trust my chains to hold him.

"You do look good in leather and chains, Doctor," I whisper, staying close beside him and smoothing my hand down the length of his back, admiring the way the muscles are prettily defined by his position, and enjoying the way goose bumps prickle his skin in the wake of my touch. Deliberately, I continue the movement down to knead at his arse, curious.

He swallows, and says hoarsely, "Master?"

"Yes, Doctor?" Sufficiently intrigued by him taking interest that I'm willing to ignore his disrespect in speaking, I lean in even closer to him. "What do you want?"

"I want." He stops and clears his throat, then drops his head, apparently backing out of verbalising whatever it is he wants.

I wait a moment and then prod him with an order. "Tell me what you want, Doctor."

It still takes him a minute. But at last he says softly, barely audible, "I want- I think- I think I need you to hurt me."

Oh, this is definite progress, and so much more than I expected. I had planned to just fuck him, but this is so much better. This is him actually engaging, actually trying to help me help him up out of the pit he's been wallowing in since the end of the War.

"Why, Doctor?" I murmur, lips so close to his ear that he shivers again and tilts his head to try and get away from my breath. "Why?"

The Doctor shakes his head, mute again.

I reach automatically for his hair to make him look at me, before remembering that there's nowhere near enough of it, now, to get a grip on. How very inconsiderate of him – especially after his last regeneration had hair to spare! I take hold of his chin instead, fingers digging in until he has to turn his head towards me. Eventually, reluctantly, his eyes lift to mine.

"Why do you need to be hurt?" I hiss.

"I destroyed Gallifrey," he says hollowly, eyes haunted. "Wiped it out of time and space. Wiped out my _entire race_."

 _All of them except me!_ I want to remind him, but manage not to say it. "You wiped out the Daleks," I say instead, pointedly. "It wasn't for nothing, Doctor."

He shakes his head, eyes squeezed tight and my hearts clench as I see tears leaking from them. "I killed them. Every single one of them. Gone – all gone!"

Still gripping his jaw with one hand, I use the other to stroke down the side of his face, wiping away the tears with my thumb. "It was the only thing left to do, Doctor – you know that." Hell, even I know that, and I'd scarpered long before he did it.

His breath hitches. "Doesn't make what I did any better," he says unevenly, and opens his eyes – blue, so very blue – and stares into mine. "Hurt me, Master, please. Make the pain go away."

It sounds like a paradox, but it's a familiar one, to me. There were far too many occasions in the past when the drums got so cripplingly loud that the only thing that would quell them was more pain, physical pain to balance the mental. I'm hit with a sudden memory of the Doctor's fifth self beating me grimly, determined to give me what I needed.

Oh god, yes, I understand.

I stare at him, misgivings about his mindset battling with my rising excitement. "Are you sure?" I make myself ask him. "Once I start, that's it. There'll be no going back. I won't stop until I think you've had enough. Until I've given you what you think you deserve."

A tremor runs through him. "It's what I need."

"And this is something you want from _me_ , Doctor?" I ask, holding his gaze. "Or were you just going to ask whoever came along first to half-kill you in the name of absolution?"

Because I've got to know. I need to know that he wants this from _me_. That I'm important to his plan – to _him_.

He flinches slightly at my wording. "I trust you to do it," he whispers. "I need it to be you."

He doesn't say anything about trusting me not to go too far, which might be a sign of his faith in me but I think it's probably more a sign that he's so far gone that he doesn't actually care if I kill him. I've done it before, after all, though not in such a direct way.

Not this time, though. "I'll hurt you, Doctor, but I'm not going to harm you." Let's get that very clear.

He nods, rather impatiently, as if it doesn't matter to him. " _Please,_ " he begs desperately.

I'd give him anything when he begs like that. I rub my thumb over his lips and finally give in to the excitement stirring within me at the mental image of the Doctor under my whip, striped and shaking and hurting for me. My body starts to thrum with arousal. "Then it will be my pleasure, Doctor," I assure him, which is nothing more nor less than the absolute truth. It's always a pleasure to hurt my Doctor, always has been and always will be. He does suffer so very beautifully.

Letting go of him, I walk purposefully over to the wardrobe. My clothes don't really need much room so a fair bit of it is devoted to hanging space for my larger toys.. I survey them all for a moment, chewing on my lower lip, before gravitating towards the single tails and finally pick out my favourite: a signal whip, darkened and softened with age and use. It's the Doctor's favourite too – so quite a bit of that usage was on him, though he had more flesh on him then. I'm going to have to be more careful this time. 

I turn back to him. He's leaning against the wall, giving his arms some slack, but his head's turned towards me, eyes following my movements. He meets my gaze for a moment, then deliberately shifts into position, readying himself.

I run my free hand down the length of his back, warm but with weight behind it, this time. A serious sort of touch, a precursor to the next touch he's going to feel from me.

"Ready?"

He nods, muscles shifting beneath the skin of his back, and I clear my throat pointedly, drums making themselves heard again, because that's not a proper answer. He's sinking too deeply inside himself.

He starts, and I can almost _feel_ his brain shift gears. "Yes, Master," he says quietly, focussed on _me_ , now.

That's what I want. "Then let's do this," I say, with a fierce grin, and deliberately test the crack of the whip beside the Doctor's ear. He recoils away from it – a beautiful, instinctive reaction.

I laugh, moving back to give myself space, and bring the whip down hard on his arse. No warm-up, just straight into fast, powerful strikes.

He wants to hurt – he's going to _hurt_.

* * *

Afterwards, when he's shaking and crying and his back is striped with angry red lines from his shoulders to his thighs I let him down and help him across to the bed. He collapses onto his stomach, panting hard and sobbing with what appears to be a mixture of pain and distress.

It's definite progress. Not to mention, bloody gorgeous. My arousal's been growing steadily in response to the exertion and the thump of the drums and the exhilaration of hurting my Doctor and now my cock's throbbing insistently in my trousers.

I watch him for a moment, experiencing an odd mixture of emotions. There's the usual pleasure at how beautiful he looks, lying there hurting with my cuffs round his wrists and my marks all over him, but there's also a corresponding ache in me that somehow doesn't want him to be hurting. That's new. And combining with both of those is the relief that he's reacting at all – that the pain I've inflicted on him seems to have managed to break through to wherever it is that he's been holding in all that guilt and misery for so long.

For once, I'm not quite sure what to do, but my instinct is to hold him. So I quickly shed the rest of my clothes and lie down beside him, on my side. I stroke the short, sweat-slicked hair, and try to see his face, to see what he _wants_.

"You look so beautiful like this, Doctor," I tell him softly. "Marked as mine and hurting for me. You take my breath away."

His breath catches, and he burrows his face into the crook of my shoulder. He's actually seeking comfort now. Nearly there. I just need a little something more to push him the rest of the way, make him really _let go_ and become mine.

Well, there's one obvious choice for that, isn't there?

After one stroke of his head, I let my hand continue so that it slides lightly down the Doctor's back. In response, I get an instinctive flinch and a quick indrawn breath, followed by a definite push back into my hand as I reach his arse.

Right choice.

I lean in to press a soft kiss to the back of his head and then roll over to snag my favourite bottle of oil from the drawer. I slick my fingers generously and trail them over the Doctor's arse, and he shivers and makes a low sound of pleasure as I smooth the cool oil over his heated flesh, enjoying the glorious pulse of heat beneath my touch. "Mmm, lovely and responsive, Doctor, that's how I like you," I murmur, pouring out some more oil, directly onto his skin this time, watching it start to slide down between his legs and pool behind his balls. I follow it with my fingers and massage the oil into his balls, drawing a low moan out of his mouth, and another as I let my fingers slip over his hole, over and round and across.

Taking it nice and slow, and trying to ease him gently from cathartic pain into arousal. 

I'm also damn sure he hasn't been fucked in this body, but that alone wouldn't be enough to make me go slow. He wouldn't want me to, anyway.

* * *

Sure enough, when at last I do slide slowly inside him, the only indication I get of any discomfort from him is a muffled grunt. He’s on his hands and knees, slick with sweat and panting with exertion from holding position against the trembling of his muscles and the throb of the welts on his back. Utterly gorgeous.

And really, definitely reacting now. He pushes back against me impatiently, using his body to demand more, faster, _now_!

I give it to him, pushing into him in one swift move, till I’m right inside him, inside my beloved Doctor at last, deep in his tight, velvety heat. I realise I’m holding my breath at the sensation – in contrast to the Doctor’s laboured gasps for breath. He’s finally starting to come apart, I realise, and I do what I can to urge him along that path: long, unhurried drags of my cock across his prostate, tortuously languid strokes of my fingers along his cock, the slow rasp of my tongue over the welts on his back. Until he’s quivering beneath me, right on the edge not just of coming but of really letting go. Letting everything go.

And _then_ I lay my cheek down against the hot stripes on the Doctor's back, feeling the heat pulsing against my skin, and push determinedly at his mind. _Let me in, Doctor. Let me in and you can come._

Even then, he hesitates, though it seems to be more from habit than anything else. He's a stubborn bastard, my Doctor.

I smirk against his back, because I've got him where I want him now. _Come on, Doctor. You need this. Let me in._ And I tighten my hand around his cock.

He growls, bucking, and my smirk grows wider as I feel his mental shields start to relax. _That's it,_ I encourage him, pushing harder, insistently, until the barrier comes down and I slip right into my Doctor's mind.

We both gasp at the sensation, as suddenly we're joined in every possible way. My arousal soars as it combines with his, and I have to close myself off for a moment to get control. When I've managed distance myself slightly from the physical to open myself to him again, I start to probe into his thoughts.

The surface of the Doctor’s mind is covered by a cloud of almost overwhelmingly intense pleasure, which is breathtakingly beautiful but not what I'm here for. I plunge determinedly through it into the turmoil below. Here, there are thoughts and emotions all roiling together: self-loathing and recrimination, horror at what the Doctor found himself capable of, his pain at the loss of the people he’d been fighting for – pain a thousand times more agonising than anything I’ve ever inflicted on him.

It’s so different from the Doctor I used to know. My Doctor has always been so ebullient, so full of life, and seeing him so close to giving up would have been unthinkable before the War. It’s hard to bear, but I metaphorically grit my teeth and stay there long enough to pull down strands of the Doctor’s rising pleasure and wrap them around the pain and guilt, binding up the negative emotions tight inside the positive ones and giving them back to him with their darkness almost obscured by the brightness of his pleasure around them.

 _Let go now_ , I urge him silently. _Let it all out, Doctor. It's all over. You can **live** again. Let it go. **Now**_.

I fill his mind with the command and then retreat just enough to become properly aware of my body again, so that I can move deliberately – press on his prostate, squeeze his cock, bite into his shoulder – and _force_ him over the precipice at last.

The Doctor comes suddenly, with a high, keening wail, body shaking beyond his control. Joined as we are, I feel the enormity of his release in every fibre of my being, all the pain and mourning flooding out of him along with his pleasure. I gasp at the rush of it – both the Doctor's pleasure and his pain – and come deep inside him, groaning hard into his skin.

As soon as I pull out of him, he collapses to the bed, still trembling and gasping for breath. I roll back onto my side beside him before he can feel the loss too much, petting him with my hand and my mind, wrapping him in my admiration for him. _My beautiful Doctor. So strong. So determined. I'm proud of you._

His mind's pretty blank right now, as if his climax has washed it clean. I like that idea. A clean slate, all lovely and bare for me to write on, to taint and tarnish as I feel like it.

He draws in a ragged breath, and his hand moves, apparently seeking mine. I close my fingers around his and he clings tightly as finally the tears come, sliding silently down his face. He doesn't say anything, barely _thinks_ anything. Just weeps quietly for the loss of his race and his planet until exhaustion pulls him down gently into sleep.

Job done. I roll over onto my back, gazing up at the ceiling and grinning widely, and withdraw slightly from his mind, keeping some contact, because I'm not leaving him alone in there right now, but separate enough that I can start to make plans without him overhearing me.

I think I'll stay with him for a bit, make sure he's really back to himself. His TARDIS still needs fixing; I can help with that. And I can have some fun with him along the way.

I’ll have to tear myself away eventually, though. It wouldn't do to stay too long. He might start to grow _comfortable_ around me, and predictable is something I've never cared to be.

So, yes, I'll leave. But I'll _definitely_ have some more fun with the Doctor first.


End file.
